


These Stolen Moments

by Batsutousai



Series: Tumblr Prompts [36]
Category: British Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Forced Separation, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Memory Loss, Mortality, Odin's Bad Parenting, Reincarnation, Rough Sex, This Is All Loki's Fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 11:12:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1264258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsutousai/pseuds/Batsutousai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjoying some free time in Iceland, Tom meets a stranger who ends up becoming nothing less than his whole world. As he has always been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Stolen Moments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tothetwelve](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tothetwelve).



> **Disclaim Her:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Marvel. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The character of Thomas "Tom" Hiddleston is based on a real person, and no offence is intended; this is only for the amusement of myself and other like-minded (read: mentally ill) fans.
> 
> **A/N:** Written for [tothetwelve's reincarnation challenge](http://tothetwelve.tumblr.com/post/77943158292/hello-hello-uvu-im-holding-my-first-fanfic).
> 
> I suppose you can blame the start of the second season of _Vikings_ (which I still haven't watched, so hush with your spoilers) for my choice in naming Loki. XD
> 
> There is very little about this story that doesn't ache. This is a relationship between a mortal, and someone who isn't, spanning _lifetimes_. You only see one lifetime in the fic, but the reality is there.

"I've found you at last," Floki said the first time they met. ('Floki' because only fools and non-believers named their children 'Loki', but his parents had known he was the god's chosen, so he was given the next best name.) 

And Tom, drunk on the icy air and a free weekend before his plane back home (and maybe a little too much alcohol, if he was being honest) had spread his arms, laughing, and replied, "So you have! And what, then, do you have in store for me, darling?" 

He didn't remember much more of the night. Floki told him they'd danced, and Tom had got even more drunk – hence the memory loss – and when Floki had tried to call him a cab, Tom had clung to him like a limpet and wailed until Floki brought him to his house on the edge of town. 

When Tom had awoken the next morning, he'd had a hangover to remind him he wasn't so young any more, an empty and unfamiliar room to be confused by, and all of his clothing and belongings on his person. (Save his shoes, which were by the door.) 

Floki brought him aspirin and water, and explained how Tom had come to be there. Then he'd made Tom some breakfast – Floki'd already eaten – and set about cleaning the dishes while Tom ate. 

"You said," Tom said, once he'd finished eating, "that you'd found me." Because he could remember that much, through the haze of drunken memories. "Were you–"

"Looking for you?" Floki finished, mouth twisting with a smile so heartbreakingly familiar, Tom couldn't breathe for a moment. 

Floki looked away and the moment passed. "Why would I not seek out the man who has so given my namesake life again. A life that..." He swallowed, loud over the noise cutlery in the water-filled sink. "You've given the world the chance to see past the demonization of your Christian faith. See him as other than evil incarnate." 

"I couldn't have done anything less," Tom replied, the words from deep within his soul. Far, far down, in the place where Loki had laid at rest ever since before Tom had even heard of the part. 

Floki looked at him, over his shoulder, and for one moment, Tom could have sworn it was the real Loki who said, " _Thank you_."

But it couldn't have been, of course. Loki wasn't real. 

"I don't know how much you've seen of the area, but you said something last night about a whole weekend of freedom?" 

"Yeah," Tom agreed, fingering the handle of his borrowed coffee mug. "You offering to play my guide?" 

Floki's responding smile was stunning, and Tom – who had never looked twice at another male, even in school – felt his heart skip a beat. "Absolutely. If you'll have me." 

Tom had a moment's uncertainty, his head warning him against this course, so fraught with unknown desires. But Tom had never been one to back out of a chance, especially not when his heart – his very _soul_ , it seemed – was telling him this was what he was _meant_ to do. 

"I would like nothing better." 

-0-

Floki was an excellent guide, making sure to show Tom both the fun things, and the beautiful ones. There was not a single thing they did, that whole weekend, that Tom didn't enjoy. It seemed almost, at times, like Floki knew Tom's interests as well as his sisters did. 

The night before his flight back to London, Tom let Floki take him out for drinks. He took care to practise moderation – flying with a hangover wasn't _anywhere_ on his bucket list, thanks – but he must have got drunk on the atmosphere, or something, because he had a hazy memory of kissing Floki, as familiar as though they were long-time lovers. And, from a distance, a broken whisper: "Not yet, Fróðe mín. Not yet." 

He woke in his hotel room, feeling drowsy, but not hung-over. The only thing of concern, was that he couldn't remember how he'd got there. 

And then his alarm went off and he forgot everything in lieu of racing to the shower for a quick run under the spray before he had to be out the door and on his way to the airport. 

-0-

He would have thought, once he'd returned to London and filming, that Floki would become a passing memory, or just another fond fan meeting that left him with a light heart, but it didn't happen. Instead, he often woke from restless dreams he couldn't remember, beyond a certainty that Floki had been involved. 

He kept busy, and kept his dreams to himself. Those who knew him clearly knew something was wrong, but he brushed off their concern with bright smiles and assurance of his health. 

"You always were a shit liar, Tommy," Emma told him over Christmas, voice pitched as though she was speaking to their niece. "I don't know why you think you can just–"

"It really is nothing, Em," he promised, leaning over and kissing her forehead. "Bit of restless sleep. I'm _fine_."

"Lying!" Emma called after him while he made a strategic retreat. 

(He maybe made a point to avoid her the rest of the holiday, though she didn't make it easy.) 

-0-

A few days after he returned from Guinea – heart heavy from the state of the people of that nation, and part of him struggling with the need to do laundry and shopping, yet wishing to punish himself for his privilege – he took a walk along the Thames, just breathing in the fouled air of home and enjoying the pollution of so many people going about their daily lives, all unknowing of the struggles he'd just witnessed. 

He was just passing the Eye, having threaded his way through crowds of tourists waiting for their turn or just having disembarked, when, as from a dream, he heard a familiar voice calling his name. Or, not his name. Well, not the _right_ name, because that voice had never called for 'Tom'. 

Confused by his own confusion, Tom turned, tugging down on the bridge of his sunglasses with one finger so they wouldn't impede his vision of the crowded pier; if he hadn't be so determined to avoid recognition, he wouldn't have bothered with the sunglasses, given the clouded sky. 

There, a bright smile under the most arresting pair of green eyes: Floki was wearing muted colours, and his over-long hair had been stuffed into the tan newsboy cap he'd put on, but there was no hiding those eyes. Something in Tom eased as the other man approached, and when Floki reached him, hand extended in greeting, Tom was bearing the most honest smile he'd worn since Iceland. 

"Hello, Tom," Floki said as their hands clasped. "I almost expected I'd miss you entirely while I was in town." 

A part of Tom was disappointed that their physical connection hadn't resulted in some sort of clichéd _zing_ , but, then, it was hardly the first time they'd met. "I–ah." He cleared his throat, voice catching for reasons he couldn't even _begin_ to guess at. "Yes, sorry. I've been in Africa. Just got back." 

"Oh?" Floki replied, curiosity lighting those eyes in a way that shouldn't have been familiar, but was. "Filming? Or something personal?" 

Tom's stomach sank, memories of malnourished babies playing again behind his eyes. "It was a trip, organised through UNICEF. Visiting the impoverished, seeing how they live, doing what little I can do to help by spreading the word." He forced a smile. 

Floki didn't pause to consider how improper it might be, he simply raised the hand that Tom wasn't holding and cupped his cheek, eyes gone soft with regret and second-hand pain. "Oh, Tom," he breathed, so familiar. So very much _everything_ Tom hadn't realised he'd needed. 

_"It's not fair,"_ a voice from his dreams echoed in his mind, _"that you should have got my share of compassion as well as your own. Oh, ástin mín–"_

"It's okay," Floki whispered. 

Something like suspicion tugged at the back of Tom's mind, but he shook it away, dislodging Floki's hand on his cheek and torn between relief and regret. "How long at you in London for?" he asked, voice a little too shaky; he really was a terrible liar. 

Floki didn't call him out, just squeezed the hand _still_ holding his. "Three more days. Depending on how everything goes, I may be back at the end of the month. Why?" 

_'Because my birthday's in five days,'_ Tom wanted to say, but he bit it back, instead offering a helpless smile. "I thought I might show you around my city, since you're here." 

Floki's whole expression lit up. "Oh, yes, please. I would love that." 

And there it was again, that Iceland-smile, taking over Tom's face and easing the heavy burden weighing his heart. "Have you been up in the Eye, yet?" 

Floki glanced over his shoulder at the massive Ferris wheel. "Yes. I just got off it." He glanced back at Tom, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. 

Tom shifted his grip on Floki's hand, so they could walk arm-in-arm. "Good. That means I won't need to try and get a ticket." He tugged, showing they should continue walking along the Thames. "Tell me everywhere you've already been. Unless you _want_ to repeat something." 

Floki laughed and squeezed Tom's hand, gait easy as he kept in step. "I got out of my meetings and came here. As long as you promise we can get in at least an hour at the National Gallery tomorrow afternoon, you're free to choose anything and everything." 

Tom grinned, wide and free. "National Gallery tomorrow for an hour. I think I can fit that in." 

-0-

Seeing Floki off was the hardest goodbye he ever had to take part in. Harder than his first time leaving for Eton, or when Sarah moved to India, or when he left for Los Angeles to film _Thor_. Harder than saying goodbye to his friends as a child when they moved, or every time they had to put down a dog. 

"Oh my God, you're getting _worse_ ," Emma complained when he dropped by her flat after leaving Floki at the airport. 

"Can we talk?" Tom requested, voice small and tired. 

Emma immediately stepped back, holding the door open for him. "I'll put the kettle on," she said once he was in and she could shut the door. "Go sit down before you fall over." 

"Thanks, Em," Tom murmured, making his way towards her worn couch. It had originally been his, and he knew better than to sit on the far right, even with the two pillows someone – Mum, most likely, because neither he nor Emma (or any of Emma's friends) cared enough to try padding it – had shoved under the cushion, over the broken spring. 

Emma joined him after a couple of moments, two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits on the antique tray she'd filched from Nana Patty's cupboard almost ten years ago. (So far as Tom knew, Nana Patty still hadn't noticed the theft. Though he was reasonably certain Grampa William knew and was just biding his time.) "There's tea in the pot, if you want more," she said as she sat the tray down on a teetering stack of books. It was a manoeuvre Tom had seen her pull off a dozen times without incident – he was half convinced they'd been stuck to the table with some sort of adhesive – but it still made him nervous, and he made short work of collecting his tea while she tossed a pile of throws and pillows off the nearest chair. 

Once Emma had settled in, tea cupped firmly between her hands and two digestives perched on her leg, she turned a look on him which she'd gone and stolen from Mum, and ordered, "Start talking." 

Tom took a moment to nibble at the soggy edge of his current biscuit, then let out a sigh and admitted, "I met someone, while I was in Iceland." 

Emma perked up. " 'Met someone', Tom? That sounds like good news. Unless she's already taken?" 

Tom swallowed. "No." He paused, realising he'd never, exactly, _asked_ Floki if he was single. He'd assumed he was, because the man had never mentioned anyone, but he'd never asked for certain. "Or, well, I don't think so." 

Emma glanced up at the ceiling, a silent plea for patience, before determinately turning her eyes on her biscuits. "So, you think she's lovely and engaging and you've been moping about her for _months_. And you never asked if she's dating anyone." She cut him an unimpressed glance. " _Tom_."

"You really need to stop making this sound simple," Tom complained. And he knew it came out on a whine, but he didn't really _care_ ; Emma had clearly been taking lessons from Dad in making Tom feel like a failure. Ugh. 

Emma sighed and took a large bite of her digestive, a faint crunch sounding from where it hadn't been soaked through. "God save me from lovesick brothers," she muttered through her mouthful of biscuit. She took a moment to swallow, then offered him a helpless look. "Okay, fine. You don't know if she's dating anyone. Given how pathetic you've been, I'm assuming she's from Iceland and not a part of the filming crew." 

Tom nodded, sipping at his tea to excuse his silence. 

Emma sighed again. "I know you decided, after Susannah, that you didn't want to date again while you were still signed with Marvel, but if denying yourself is making you _this_ distracted, you might be better served just going for it." 

Tom rubbed his thumb over a chip in the handle of his mug. "I don't want to fight with Dad," he admitted, because that was a large part of his indecision; he and their father had spent years fighting over his wish to become an actor. It was only with Tom's recent success that James had eased off, and Tom didn't really want to go back to those days. He _loved_ his father, craved his approval like any child might. Those years without James' approval had been some of the worst of his entire life, no matter how much his sisters and mum had tried to fill Dad's place. 

"What, is she Russian?" Emma joked, because that did seem to be the one home country their father had reservations about. 

Tom swallowed, the words caught at the back of his throat. It didn't matter that he knew Emma wouldn't care, that she would hold her tongue about it to everyone else until he was ready to spread it around. It was just so _ingrained_ in his head that other people could be gay, but he _wasn't_. _God_ , if only Floki had been a woman. 

Emma sat forward, concern ageing her face. "Tom?" 

"He," he got out at last, clinging to his tea like it would save him. "His name is Floki." 

"Oh my God," Emma breathed out, understanding making her eyes water. "He'll shit _bricks_."

Tom managed a weak smile. "Fuck bricks. He'll shit an entire bloody _building_."

Emma returned his smile, edging on too dark to count as a smile, but there. Real. 

She understood. She always had. 

A hand caught his wrist, tugged his hand away from his mug so their fingers could lace together, as familiar and comforting as every time Floki and he touched. "Tell me about him." 

Tom did. He told her about his name, and the way his tone brightened every time Loki came up. He told her about the way Floki's eyes lit up when Tom found something in the city that would interest him, and the way he'd stared at some of the art in the National Gallery like they'd meant the world to him. He mentioned the way Floki's eyes brightened every time he smiled, the way he bumped shoulders with Tom when he wanted to share in a joke, the way his laugh dipped in tone when he knew he was enjoying something he shouldn't. 

"You are _so_ far gone," Emma said, squeezing his hand. "How much time have you actually _spent_ with him?" 

Tom let out a nervous laugh, glancing down at his chilling tea to hide his grimace as he admitted, "Five days, all told." 

"Oh my God, Tom," she said, but not like she was disappointed, or thought he was going mad. Just...resigned. 

Tom glanced up at her, looking through his eyelashes as he admitted, "I feel...something in me feels like I've known him longer." 

" _Tom_ ," Emma complained, and there was the disapproval. 

"Not like _that_ ," Tom insisted, pulling his hand away so he could grab another digestive. "I know what you're thinking, but no. No, it's more like... I don't know. I _know_ him, Em." He caught her gaze, trying to get her to understand with his eyes. "I knew he hated onions. I knew it before he asked for none the first time. I know he thinks chocolate is God's gift to the world, but he has to limit himself because he always ends up sick as a dog when he eats too much. I know watermelon is his favourite fruit, but he didn't have any until he was almost an adult." 

"He's told you–"

"He _hasn't_." He swallowed and tapped his biscuit on the edge of his mug, watching the soaked-in tea drip down and cause ripples. "Em, I _remember_ watching him have watermelon for the first time, and holding his hair the first time he got sick from eating too much chocolate. His brother was standing there, laughing and being useless. Floki was snarling curses at him between–" He coughed, realising that was too much information. 

Emma was staring at him, expression considering. "You've always said soul mates are a pleasant dream," she pointed out. 

"They are," Tom affirmed, because he still believed that. "This isn't the same thing." 

"No?" Emma asked. 

Tom nodded because the explanation had been there, niggling at him since that first meeting: 'I've found you at last,' Floki had said. And the next morning, when Tom had been certain he was speaking to the real Loki, for a moment. 

"Reincarnation," he said. 

Emma considered it for a moment, then shrugged. "Same thing," she decided. 

Tom didn't debate it with her; he knew it wasn't. 

Loki never died, only Tom. 

-0-

_"I'm sorry I had to leave right before your birthday,"_ Floki said first thing when Tom picked up his mobile. _"I hadn't realised how close it was until after I saw your mentions explode on twitter."_ There was an bitter note to his voice, as though finding out through twitter was the worst way it could have happened. 

Loki always missed his birthday, Tom knew. Never on purpose – or never _obviously_ on purpose – but it always happened. 

"You still have four hours," he commented, eyes on the tumbler he was holding with his free hand. It was mostly ice, now, since he'd made quick work of the Jameson he'd poured as soon as he'd got in. He had just been considering getting up for a refill when his mobile had rung. 

Floki laughed. _"There's no way I can catch a flight and get to London in four hours, Tom."_

"You've never needed an aeroplane to travel before." 

There was a long silence from the other end of the line, then it went dead. Tom just had time to wonder if he'd been wrong, before his living room lit with green and Floki – _Loki_ , God – appeared before him. He was wearing a soft green shirt and black slacks; relaxing clothing, he'd always called them, though these clearly weren't of Asgardian make. 

"You remembered far quicker than usual," Loki commented quietly. There was an uncertainty about him, as though he was expecting a bad reaction to his appearance. (Not without reason, Tom knew, though he couldn't remember a time when he'd reacted poorly to the truth.) 

"It's only bits and pieces," Tom admitted, shaking his head. "But I remember you. I remember–" He lost his train of thought as he lost himself in those familiar green eyes, a chill dancing down his spine and leaving warmth in its wake. 

Loki's eyes darkened, reading Tom's expression with an ease that spoke to their long familiarity, and started forward, steps measured, even. There was a determination about him as he stopped in front of Tom and gently prised the tumbler from his numb fingers. "What do you remember, elskan mín?" 

"I remember you always manage to miss my birthday," Tom murmured, feeling rather as though he were falling through a dream. 

Loki snorted. "You mortals put far too much– _Ha_ ," he gasped as Tom cupped his crotch, the shape and weight familiar even through the unfamiliar Earth-based fabric. "Fróðe," he whispered, the name like a prayer. 

Tom's name. His _first_ name. The one Loki always defaulted to when there was no one else around, no further need to hide the truth of them. 

"I am going to unwrap you," Tom murmured, looking up Loki's body to where the dark eyes were looking down at him, "and then I am going to fuck you. And because it is my birthday and you _owe me_ , you aren't going to complain." 

"I always complain," Loki breathed, but it wasn't a refusal. In fact, for Loki, it was practically a promise of compliance. 

Tom unfolded his limbs and stood. Loki was close enough that their bodies pressed flush, and their arms went around each other with the sort of ease that only long-time lovers could manage. Tom eyed him for a moment, then tilted his head just so and closed his eyes. 

Lips descended on his, hot and cold in equal measures, but unquestioningly wet where the god licked along his lips once, twice, then withdrew to catch Tom's lower lip between teeth and _tug_. He gasped into it, fingers tightening in the cotton of Loki's shirt, and gave up all pretence of resistance as a tongue invaded his mouth. Loki meant to conquer him, to lick out every atom of anyone who had dared come first, and Tom was happy to let him, melting against the other man. 

"Have me, Fróðe mín," Loki whispered against Tom's lips once he'd withdrawn. "Fill me with all you are, so I might again believe–" His voice caught and his eyes clenched shut. 

What agony, to be ever cursed with watching your lover grow old and die. Tom's heart felt like it was breaking a thousand times over, as never-ending as Loki's sorrow. 

Words spilled from Tom's lips in his first language, the same words he always said: "Ég er hér. Ég er hérna, ástin mín." 

_'I'm right here, my love.'_

Loki smiled at him, ancient and cracked around the edges, and Tom was struck with a sudden fear that this might be the last time; one day, he would be reborn, and Loki would be dead and gone at last, at peace in whatever afterlife would open its doors to him. What a hollow existence that would be, with Tom ever unknowing what was missing from his life. 

"Come on," Tom whispered, voice as broken as Loki's smile. 

He led him upstairs, to his bedroom. Gave Loki a moment to look around, watched his eyes light on those little things that Tom could never bring himself to throw away, things that had reminded him of a person he didn't even know he'd been missing. 

When those green eyes at last landed back on him, Tom stepped forward to help Loki out of his shirt. He let Loki help him out of his, as well, then set about re-familiarising himself with the unchanging body bared for him. He knew Loki was looking him over as well, cataloguing differences, the scars of an active childhood, the birthmarks and moles that were never in the same place twice. 

Loki never changed, and Tom was never the same; such was their curse. 

Trousers were removed next, as well as Tom's pants. (He bit back any jokes about Loki's lack of undergarments, simply because he had far more interesting things to do with his time.) Hands and eyes roamed, until Loki had enough and pulled Tom tight against him, their bodies ever fitted together, as though by the design of some higher power. 

Tom took the hint and gently cupped Loki's arse with both hands, slipping one finger between his cheeks and pressing lightly against his anus until Loki breathed a curse and spread his legs, giving Tom easy access. A whispered word coated Tom's fingers with just enough oil to perform the bare minimum of preparation that he would allow; Loki always wanted it rough, wanted to feel the burn long after Tom had withdrawn, accelerated healing and all. 

As Tom prepared Loki, he lightly rolled his hips into the god. Loki whimpered against his throat, fingers pressed hard enough into Tom's shoulders to leave bruises that would remain for weeks. Tom didn't care; a part of him needed those marks as much as Loki needed to be fucked so it hurt. 

When Loki pulled back, Tom let him go. The god turned away and braced himself against the nearest wall, legs spread and arse bared like an offering on the feast table. His entrance was red and wanting, his cock bobbing between his legs, pearled with beads of precum. His hands were fisted against the wall, knuckles white as he held himself back from snarling orders over his shoulder. (Somewhere, in the very back of his mind, a part of Tom mourned the damage that his wall would be receiving directly.) 

Tom stepped forward, reaching out to touch his lover. He ran his hands up the unblemished back, thumbs brushing over the bumps of his spine. Memorising him, as though _this time_ he could keep the image burned into his mind, as it had long been burned into his heart. 

"Please," Loki breathed out, quiet enough that he could pretend he'd never resorted to pleading. 

Tom quickly lined himself up and pushed in, rewarding that drop in defences. The whine Loki let out in response, long and broken and _perfect_ , was well worth it, as was the tightness clenching around him. 

His fingernails were blunt, but that didn't stop him from digging them in to Loki's hip, or dragging them down his back hard enough to raise welts. The marks would heal quickly, but the gasped whimpers Loki was trying to muffle with the wall told him they were felt. 

"I'm here," Tom gasped, breath stuttering from his own sharp movements, the sting of skin slapping against skin, the rough tug and pull of Loki's channel, resisting him, even as it demanded more, harder, faster. _'Carve yourself a hole inside me, so I might never forget this is where you belong,'_ Loki had said once. 

Tom had nothing to carve with but his own nails and his prick, but he left what marks he could on Loki's skin, and parted Loki's insides just enough, that when he came–

Loki let out a sob as Tom released inside him, filling him with everything that he was. He reached back and caught Tom's wrists, dragging them forward until Tom was pulled flush against his back, arms wrapped around him. 

"I'm here," Tom whispered against Loki's shoulder blade, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the too-sharp edge. "Ég er hérna, ástin mín." 

Loki's gasped sobs filled the silence, burying the words the god could never say: 'Don't leave again.'

-0-

_Loki never quite knew when to quit, could never quite bring himself to admit he'd gone too far. Fróðe had lost track of how many times he'd been forced to step in, to take Loki's hand and say, 'No more. Enough. You've already won.'_

_Fróðe wondered, some days, how often AllMother Frigga wished she retained the power to step in and ease her husband back, for Loki shared this bad habit with his father. ('He is **not** my father!' Loki would scream centuries into the future, raging against the truth, because he could no longer bear the lie.) _

_This week was no different from any other; Loki had proceeded with a string of 'pranks' in poor humour, he'd been lightly punished for each one in turn, then sent away to prepare the next. Had Fróðe not been in the city, caring for his sister because their father was away, he might have been able to stop Loki before he went too far, but the Norns were not with him, and he heard at the market of Loki's too-harsh punishment._

_His sister was given over to a neighbour to watch, then Fróðe ran for Glaðsheimr, hoping to ease his king with apologies aplenty. Or, at the least, give Odin a second target, so Loki might avoid a month spent on the rack, alone save for the deaf and mute slave sent to adjust the cogs and feed him just enough water to keep him alive – the AllFather was most cruel in his ire._

_He did not fail, in his quest to give Odin a second target, but he hadn't quite understand the severity of the AllFather's fury._

_'You have wish to share in Loki's punishment, Einherjar Fróðe?' Odin had enquired, a gleam in his single eye which Fróðe didn't think to worry about, as concerned with easing Loki's punishment as he was._

_'I do, AllFather,' he'd agreed, bowing._

_'Let it be so,' Odin intoned, knocking Gungir against the dais._

_'My king, **no**!' Frigga called, but it was too late. _

_Fróðe turned to stare at Loki in horror as he felt himself fading away to nothing. 'Until Ragnarök,' Odin informed them, 'you will live and die as a mortal, trapped in a cycle never-ending. You will be born with no memories of what came before. Let Loki waste his hours romancing you, rather than serving cruelties upon others._

_'Assuming, of course, that his fickle nature gives you care enough to ever hunt you down.'_

_The last sound Fróðe ever heard, was Loki screaming his name._

-0-

He awoke drenched in sweat, eyes opened wide and staring, unseeing, around the familiar room. 

An arm wrapped around his chest and pulled him back down against the pillows. He found he could focus his vision again, seeing only familiar green eyes, which shone bright in the light of his bedside clock. 

"What do you need?" Loki whispered, knowing exactly which nightmare Tom had just woken from, because it was always the same one, the first night. 

Sometimes, Tom needed a quick fuck, sometimes he needed to hear Loki's voice droning on about nothing important. Tonight, he just needed one thing: "Hold me, and never let go." 

Loki's arms tightened around him, drawing him so close, they might as well share the same skin. "I never have," Loki swore. 

It was in the words unspoken that the terrible truth lay: Loki could no longer say, 'And I never will.'

..


End file.
